Shattered
by RaspieAspie
Summary: A case on a lakeside reminds Sherlock of things he doesn't want to remember. Season 4 spoilers; don't read if you haven't seen it yet! Please R&R!


5/27/17

Sherlock

Shattered

"Hurry up John! We want to get there before all the evidence is washed away, or before Lestrade and his band of idiots destroy the crime scene!" Sherlock called over his shoulder. He turned back to face the wind, and a sharp gust smacked his face. He pulled his Belstaff tighter around his thin frame in an effort to fight off the cold that seeped through the wool and settled into his bones.

Behind him, an equally frigid John struggled to keep up. They trudged up a steep rocky hillside as a damp sea breeze swept in from the East, compounded by the persistent drizzle that fell from the heavy grey cloud cover. The sun was decidedly absent from this part of England.

As he watched Sherlock march doggedly up the hill, John couldn't help but feel a pang of concern, one that had been familiar to him in these last few weeks.

It had been less than a month since the incident with Charles Augustus Magnussen, when Sherlock had risked his life in an attempt to save John from himself. Barely a month since Mary had died, in an attempt to save Sherlock from himself, and in that time, Sherlock had dived into his cases with a fervour that was excessive even for him. He seemed manic and unsettled, perpetually bouncing from one idea to the next, never stopping long enough to eat, sleep, breathe... or think. John worried that Sherlock was trying to run away from himself, from his thoughts, his feelings. He had always declared emotions to be useless and boring, and now it seemed he was trying far harder than usual to avoid them.

Finally the two friends made it to the top of the hill, where a small pond sat surrounded by patchy grass and wet grey sand.

A hundred metres from where they stood, a collection of damp, miserable-looking police officers were poking around in the brush and along the shore. Not far off, Lestrade stood watching them, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his brown overcoat, which flapped in the biting breeze.

At his feet lay a blue heap. A plastic blue tarp had been draped over their latest victim, who, judging by the hand that protruded from beneath the covering, was female.

Sherlock strode towards them, ignoring the beat officers as he passed. He crouched next to the body and carefully inspected the hand without touching it.

"Her name's Tiffany Wilson," Lestrade supplied, "she was reported missing three days ago by–"

"Shut up," Sherlock said brusquely, not looking up. "And take a step back please, your breathing is distracting."

Lestrade sighed with annoyance, but did as he was asked.

John came up behind Sherlock and watched him work, but knew better than to ask any questions.

"Reported missing three days ago by the fiancé no doubt. He waited a few days to file the report because they were on the eve of their wedding, and he thought she was just off with her friends for the "bachelorette party" or whatever they call that pre-nuptial drivel."

John smirked slightly at Lestrade's look of annoyance.

"Correct as usual Sherlock," Lestrade said in a slightly irritated tone, "I'll bite and ask how you deduced that just by looking at her hand."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "It's obvious Lestrade, if you'd bother to look. Here we have her left hand, the pale band around her ring finger shows the previous presence of a ring, but only one, so, engaged but not married. Close to marriage though because her fingernails were recently manicured. My limited study of the topic tells me that this type of procedure is typically quite expensive, so, not something she engages in often, given the roughness of the skin on her hands, telling me that she performs physical labour for a living, not the sort of job that would lead to a lot of disposable income. Now, if you're done asking stupid questions, let's take a look at the rest of her."

Sherlock stood up and moved around to the victim's head. He kicked aside the rocks that were holding the tarp down, and pulled it off in one fell sweep. The minute he saw her face though, he froze. One hand still clutched a corner of the tarp, holding it out like he'd forgotten that he was supposed to let it go. On his face was etched a look of shock, and he stared at the woman, unblinking.

John took a step forward. "Sherlock? Are you okay?"

Sherlock gave no indication that he'd heard him, and continued to stand there unmoving.

John moved to stand beside Sherlock, and when he did, he saw what had shocked his friend so.

The dead woman lying before them was blonde. Her grey-blue eyes stared blankly at the sky, and a single bullet-hole pierced her skull, right in the middle of her forehead.

John felt a lump form in his throat and his eyes stung with unexpected tears. She looked exactly like Mary.

John took a deep breath and looked away. "It's okay Sherlock," he murmured, clearing his throat, "we don't have to stay. Let's let Lestrade's team gather the evidence and they can tell us what they found later."

Still Sherlock didn't move. He looked like a statue.

"Sherlock," John said softly, "come on, let's go." He rested a hand on his friend's arm.

Suddenly Sherlock jolted to life, as if electrified by the touch. He wrenched his arm away and stumbled back. "Don't!" he screamed, "don't touch me!"

John held up his hands to show that he wouldn't do it again. "Okay," he said, trying to keep his voice calm, "it's okay Sherlock, let's just go home."

"No!" Sherlock shrieked, "We're not going home, we have a case to solve! What's wrong with you John can't you see that we have a bloody case here!"

"Sherlock, take a deep breath," John said evenly, taking a step towards him.

"Shut up! Shut up!" Sherlock screamed, gripping fistfuls of hair in both hands. "Stop talking, stop making so much noise! I can't think! Just shut up!" He took a few staggering steps back as he tried to evade John's approach, and tripped over a rock that jutted from the sand.

John and Lestrade both watched as Sherlock fell back hard, but he didn't even seem to notice the impact as he drew his knees tightly up to his chest and buried his face in them, protecting the back of his neck with his hands. They heard a low keening moan as Sherlock started to rock back and forth.

Lestrade frowned with concern. "What's the matter with him?" he asked.

John sighed and murmured, "He's having a meltdown. It's an autism thing. You remember when I told you he had Asperger's during that case with the Baskerville hound?"

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were just joking about that, you mean he really does have autism?" he asked.

John nodded, "I think this victim reminded him of Mary. He still hasn't let himself process everything that happened. If we just leave him alone for a while, he should be okay."

Lestrade was about to reply, when suddenly there came a shout from the lakeside. "Sir! I found something!" one of the beat cops called.

Sherlock flinched visibly and snapped his head up. "What part of shut up don't you understand?!" he screamed. He scrambled to his feet and lunged towards the young officer like he was going to attack him.

"Sherlock!" John cried, "Sherlock don't!" He ran towards his friend and tried to block his way, but Sherlock was in a rage.

The detective snatched John by the lapels of his coat and tried to shove him aside, his venomous words having devolved to an agonised, rage-filled shrieking.

"Sherlock! Sherlock it's okay, it's okay!" John said urgently, trying to wrestle the taller man into a restraint. Unable to get a good grip on Sherlock's flailing arms, John threw all his weight into his friend's torso, squeezing as hard as he could.

At first, Sherlock clawed and beat at John's back in a desperate attempt to break free, but as the struggle dragged on, the deep compression of the doctor's arms began to take its hold, and he felt his fight draining away.

Eventually Sherlock gave up. His fists fell to his sides as he slumped heavily to the ground. It was at that moment that everything he'd been trying to hide from came rushing to the surface, and he started to sob.

He threw both arms around John and latched onto his coat with a vice grip. His breathing came in rushed, uneven hitches as that month's worth of unshed tears streamed down his cheeks.

John held him tightly, pressing Sherlock's head into his shoulder and stroking his shaggy curls. "It's okay," he whispered as he rocked them both on the sand, "it's okay."

Doing his best to catch his breath, Sherlock choked, "It's not okay."

John sighed heavily and closed his eyes as a few stray tears leaked down his cheeks. "No," he murmured, "but it is what it is."


End file.
